


With Reverent Hands

by ClydeThistles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/F, Falling In Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Sodden, Yennaia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29416221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Post-Sodden, Yennefer and Tissaia must heal one another.Title taken from 'A Poem to His Beloved' by WB Yeats.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 26
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedSovereign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSovereign/gifts).



> Written to fulfil a request on Tumblr by @RedSovereign - it took me a fair bit of time to get this to you but I hope it will be worth the wait! Remaining chapters to be published shortly.

'Reverent' adj. demonstrating profound awe, respect and often, love.

The ground beneath her cheek is damp, blessedly cool after the heat of the firestorm singeing her face. Yennefer groans as the rest of her body gradually becomes reconnected to her mind, her hands are throbbing and blistered, a knee twisted at an uncomfortable angle where she has landed. The old nagging ache of her shoulder returning with a vengeance as it does whenever she overexerts her Chaos. Footsteps, heavy and clinking with armour, reach her ears vibrating up through the ground and Yennefer tries to lift her head so she can see their banners, see whether she is safe or not. Her neck refuses to co-operate but she gets her answer when hands roughly pull her up and fasten shackles round her wrists. The chains and cuffs glint in the embers of her inferno, a bluish tint to the metal and Yennefer feels her stomach drop with dread. Dimeritium. The armoured brutes gripping her elbows twist until she is forced to her knees, hanging limp in their arms as the hum of a portal and the swish of a cloak on the grass announce the arrival of a mage. Yennefer grits her teeth against the metal already poisoning her and lifts her head to see Fringilla smirking down at her. The Nilfgaardian sorceress’ triumph etches itself even wider across her face as the sounds of Tissaia shouting reach them.

“Yennefer? Yennefer!”

Fringilla nods at more lackeys, “Bring her to me.”

Yennefer battles the fog of dimeritium in her mind to reach out to Tissaia, _Be quiet! They’re searching for you!_

But still the Rectoress calls loudly, a hint of desperation cracking her voice, “Yennefer!”

Fringilla lays a hand casually on Yennefer’s should and explains, “She can’t hear you. Dimeritium.” She tilts Yennefer’s chin up with a gloved forefinger and continues, speaking slowly as though Yennefer is an imbecile whom one must be patient with, “She came to find me, to change my mind. Stupid vain woman thought she could still tell me what to do, that she still had some hold over me.” Yennefer snarls and Fringilla scoffs, “I wish you could have seen the look on her face when she realised what was happening. The terror in her eyes when she felt the dimeritium hitting her, breathing it in and crumpling like a ragdoll. The great Tissaia de Vries on her knees and wheezing.”

Between the energy she spent in the firestorm and the shackles, Yennefer cannot muster enough Chaos to cast even a small enchantment. But there is nothing to stop her from lunging to wrap her chains around Fringilla’s throat,

“I’ll kill you, you bitch!”

Fringilla flicks her away with a casual wave of her hand, as though she were an irritating fly, and Yennefer stumbles to the ground winded by the blast of Chaos that hits her. She is writhing in the mud and screaming bloody murder, two soldiers kneeling on her to restrain her, when a voice cuts through,

“Yennefer?”

Yennefer looks up and feels her heart skip a beat. Tissaia looks even worse than before, her skin paler with a grey tinge and she hangs limp in the grip of the soldiers holding her. She lifts her head though to meet Yennefer’s eyes and whispers,

“You’re alive…”

Fringilla crosses to her former teacher and cups her cheek with cold precision,

“Even now, ever after all she’s done, all she has _failed_ at – you still hold to her, her above the rest of us.”

Tissaia’s eyebrows raise in surprise at the jealousy flickering in dark eyes and she softens her voice, “Fringilla-”

She gets no further as Fringilla cracks her hand hard across Tissaia’s cheek, the younger mage’s nostrils flaring momentarily before she smooths her features into impassive stoniness. As Tissaia gasps and blinks back tears from the sting, it takes three burly soldiers and two sets of shackles to stop Yennefer trying to claw Fringilla’s face to ribbons. With nothing left at her disposal but her pride and stubbornness, Yennefer spits at her old classmate.

“Yennefer!”

Despite everything, Tissaia still manages to sound disapproving of such unbridled emotion, of such boorish behaviour unbecoming for a Sorceress. Fringilla doesn’t even flinch, merely wipes the spittle off her cheek then utters an incantation in a guttural tongue that Yennefer does not recognise. Tissaia is familiar with it however and she protests,

“No! Not that, Fringilla, you mustn’t!”

Fringilla smirks, “Have you forgotten already, Rectoress? The days when you dictated my actions are long gone.”

Yennefer suddenly howls and fumbles, Fringilla nodding in grim satisfaction and Tissaia’s face crumpling with horror as she murmurs,

“What have you done? You know not what you risk with such Darkness.”

“I am not the one in the dark, Tissaia. There is a power in these Arts, and you are blind to it.” She flicks her eyes to where Yennefer is still frantically waving her hands around and twisting her head back and forth, “As blind as your precious piglet is now. It’s only a shame she won’t be able to watch as you fade to nothing.”

Tissaia replies woodenly, “You win no victories there, Fringilla. I am already nothing to her.”

Yennefer hears the words, and the fight leaves her suddenly, the resolve that has been holding her upright melting away and her body sagging into her captor’s hands because it is true. She has been so blind, and now, she pays the price.

* * * *

The walls beneath Yennefer’s fingertips are pitted and grooved as she follows the terrain of them like a map. She knows the round indentation with the smooth edges means she has reached half-way round the small rectangle of space that has been her prison these past five days. The diagonal striations, rough and crumbly, mean she is three steps away from the bars. Yes, there, the cold metal in her palm, so cold it burns. And the bars mean she is as close to Tissaia as possible. Usually, the yard outside their cells rings with soldiers drilling and sergeants barking instructions, the Nilfgaardian infantry's legendary discipline being forged in the frozen mud. In the dead of night however, it is quiet enough that Yennefer can catch the wheeze of Tissaia breathing. The awful rattling in her chest that is nonetheless a welcome sound because it is all Yennefer has of her. She cannot see since Fringilla blinded her, she cannot reach out and touch Tissaia, and she cannot use their thoughts to communicate, not when there is only a dull silence where the Arch-Mage’s Chaos should be flickering. She can talk to her though, even if Tissaia is too weak to answer, and Yennefer does. She talks of mundane, drivelling things like the beetle she found in her gruel or the weather in Aedirn. Spins tales of dragons and djinns, dwarves and knights. And when she has run out of incongruous anecdotes, she tells Tissaia things she has never told anyone before. In the empty quiet of night, from when silence falls with the camp going to sleep until the dawn rouses their captors, Yennefer talks. Because her ability to keep thinking of new things to say has somehow become entwined (in her own mind at least) with keeping Tissaia alive.

Tissaia tries to shift on the filthy straw that covers the flagstones of her cell but, her body refuses to obey even the simplest command. Her veins are burning, and she can feel her grasp on reality slipping, but Yennefer starts up her nightly oration and Tissaia clings to the words. She can never manage more than a wheeze and the occasional whimper to let Yennefer know she is listening but Tissaia is convinced the dimeritium would have claimed her mind far quicker without the comfort of the younger mage’s voice. Which is laughable in itself – the thought that Yennefer’s voice, her incessant chatter, has become something Tissaia holds precious. The girl’s stubborn defiance, her constant backtalk, had once infuriated her Rectoress but now it is the only thing keeping her sane. And so, when Yennefer suddenly goes quiet, Tissaia waits with bated breath. It is not yet dawn, it has not been long enough and Tissaia can usually see the glow of the sun through her eyelids before the guards arrive and Yennefer goes mute.

_Please. Talk to me. Tell me all your little trivialities, your adventures. All the big secrets you think will make you weak in my eyes but only make you more precious._

Tissaia knows it is pointless thinking it, she can no more channel Chaos for thought transference than she can lift herself from this infernal itchy straw. With concerted effort, she manages to drag her eyelids open and sees Yennefer staring blankly into the distance, her gaze unfocused and unseeing. Her hands are curled round the bars of her cell so tightly the knuckles are white and Tissaia aches to think something is causing the younger mage pain. Something other than the dimeritium shackles and the loss of her sight, as if those were not torture enough. Not for the first time since they have been taken captive, Tissaia feels rage simmering inside her, anger that has long been dormant and controlled but is now spitting. Were she not incapacitated, the Nilfgaardian camp and a fair portion of the surrounding countryside would be ashes, Tissaia is _that_ angry.

Yennefer rests her forehead against the bars, her throat scratchy with thirst and speech. Her skin is straining upwards, outwards from her bones, yearning for something. Perhaps it is with her sight gone that her other senses have intensified or the dimeritium making her nerve-endings raw or simply that she is currently denied the opportunity. Whatever the reason, Yennefer is aching for contact, for touch. She aches to touch Tissaia. Not in the way the bards use the phrase with suggestive eyebrows and knowing titters, not to feel her wet beneath her fingers. Those things, yes, in time perhaps. But what she craves is to know the scent and weight of Tissaia’s hair, to feel the heat of their palms together and study the pattern their fingers interlock in. To test whether her hand fits into the small of Tissaia’s back like she imagines it does, she wants the warmth of Tissaia’s thigh next to hers and the heaviness of her head resting on her shoulder. The casual brush of a hand laid on an arm in passing, brief but precious. Yennefer groans and sinks further down the bars until she’s an inelegant shape on the floor, her chains clinking. The noise almost masks the change in Tissaia’s breathing but Yennefer just catches the whimper and immediately freezes, straining her ears.

“Tissaia?”

Making only that pathetic sound has cost Tissaia so much there are stars behind her eyelids and she growls internally with frustration, the humiliation of being rendered so incompetent burning almost as much as the dimeritium. The dizziness is worth it though when she hears Yennefer call her.

“Tissaia? You must hold on, you must fight.” A pregnant pause that makes the hair on the back of Tissaia’s neck raise. “You are not nothing to me, you know that? I thought perhaps you only said it to goad Fringilla, but I could hear it in your voice – you meant it.” Another pause, tight and weighted with a heavy exhalation from Yennefer. “I don’t know what you are, who you are to me, it’s never been a simple question. But you’re certainly not ‘nothing’, Tissaia.”

Yennefer has always scoffed at Tissaia’s tight reign over her emotions, has never shied away from the power that _feeling_ can give her. But even she has a momentary prickle of dread at the wind that suddenly picks up in the wake of her confession. The hum in the air that makes her Chaos tingle even through the iridescent metal round her wrists. The crack of magical barriers being breached is followed by the whooshing-pop of a portal and suddenly there are arms round her, lifting her up.

“Hush, it’s me ,Yenna. We’ve come to rescue you.”

Yennefer clutches at the hands guiding her forward to the portal and asks, “Sabrina?”

“You’d think you’d know my voice by now!”

And Yennefer smiles because the familiar scorn in the blonde mage’s voice is the most comforting thing she’s heard in days. The wards in place to detect enemy mages begin to wail and Sabrina stiffens slightly,

“Hurry now, I’d rather not have to fight our way out.”

Yennefer twists her head blindly towards the other cell, “Tissaia?”

“We’ve got her, come on, the portal, now!”

If she’d thought portals were discomfiting _before_ she lost her sight, Yennefer now abhors them. The disorientation, the roaring in her ears, is compounded by her blindness and she promptly throws up when they step out into a cobbled hallway that has the same smell of beeswax and sea-air as it did when she was a student. Aretuza. Yennefer ignores Sabrina’s derisive snort and follows the scent of verbena that neither the metallic tang of dimeritium nor the five days in squalor has managed to mask. The fabric beneath her fingertips is gritty with dirt and powdered metal, the soft ruffles and tiny crimson jewels now crusty and tarnished, nothing like what Tissaia would wear. But Yennefer knows she’s found the right person as she searches with her hand up past the pendant, the high collar, until she can cup the sharp jaw and dimpled chin, brush her thumb across the prominent cheekbone. Although Tissaia’s skin is cool and clammy to the touch, Yennefer can feel the defiant thud of a pulse in the soft tissue under jaw. And, for the second time that week, she murmurs in relief,

“You’re alive…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer & Tissaia make it back to Aretuza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we'll have four rather than three chapters in total - plot bunnies!  
> Massive thank you to @riverstyxgoddess for being a sounding-board and cheerleader on this one!

Before she has a chance to savour the closeness of Tissaia, Yennefer’s hands are slapped away and a voice sharp with a cut-glass accent scolds her,

“Don’t touch her, you fool! She’s covered in dimeritium, those chains round your wrists will seem trifles if you get even a speck of the powder in your bloodstream.”

Yennefer’s hackles raise. Whilst she is not especially familiar with that voice, she would recognise it anywhere; no other Sorceress has such a biting tone. Except perhaps Tissaia when someone has made the grave error of displeasing her. Yennefer laces her own voice with sarcasm,

“Mistress Eilhart. You finally see fit to grace us with your presence.”

Philippa snaps impatiently, “Do not waste my time with your peevishness, Yennefer. My reasons for delaying are beyond your understanding – that does not make them malevolent. It does, however, make _you_ unimaginative.”

Sabrina interjects, “Don’t talk to her like that! We are not cowering novices for you to bark orders at.” She pauses to murmur an incantation, snapping her fingers to direct the energy, and Yennefer feels her shackles open of their own accord before clattering to the floor. She can _hear_ Sabrina toss her high ponytail as she adds, “And it was not _you_ who stood at Tissaia’s side as Nilfgaard approached.”

Philippa’s voice takes on a dangerous edge, “If you have accusations, state them plainly. As for standing by Tissaia – I have been at her side since before you were anything more than a randy fumble in the dark of your parents’ bedchamber.”

Footsteps and another voice, warm and with a faint Toussaint lilt, “Enough! Move aside Phil, Nenneke’s girls will tend to her. No mage is any use to Tissaia whilst she’s trailing dimeritium in her wake.”

Philippa drawls in exaggerated surprise, “Rita, things must be bad if we’ve tempted you away from your books – I have never known you to dabble in politics.”

Yennefer’s ears prick up – she remembers Rita from their brief time together at Aretuza, the older mage Ascending the year Yennefer had arrived. Whilst Philippa sets her teeth on edge, Yennefer’s relief at Rita’s presence increases tenfold when she retorts,

“My interest here is the wellbeing of Aretuza and its Rectoress, as you well know, Philippa. Do stop sniffing out my supposed ulterior motives, now is not the time for your scheming and machinations.” Philippa makes a derisive sound, but Rita carries on unperturbed, “Sabrina, take Yennefer to the infirmary and yourself too – I should never have allowed you to participate in the rescue, your spine has barely healed.”

Yennefer realises (more than a little ashamed it has taken her this long), that the last time she saw Sabrina she was a crumpled heap, anguish in her eyes as comprehension dawned and she took in the destruction she had wrought. Before Yennefer can ask how she is though, Sabrina gives her an arm to hold, her other palm pressing lightly between Yennefer’s shoulder blades to steer her. Yennefer twists her head blindly again,

“Tissaia?”

Rita insists, “She is safe, Yennefer. There is nothing you can do for her until she has been cleaned. It would serve no one were we to poison ourselves also.”

Yennefer allows herself to be led away and once they are out of earshot of the older Sorceresses she murmurs,

“Thank you…for coming to find me. You shouldn’t even be walking yet.”

Sabrina’s forearm tenses under Yennefer’s grip when she replies, “I had to fix it, fix the mess I made. After what I did in the keep…”

Yennefer stops abruptly, Sabrina bumping into her at the sudden halt,

“That was _not_ your fault, you were being manipulated.”

“ _The strong amongst the weak_ … do you remember when she said that about me? I thought I’d burst with pride.” Sabrina’s shoulders slump, “But when the time came, I was nothing more than a puppet, malleable, _weak_.”

Yennefer searches with her hand until she has Sabrina’s in her own, the fingertips calloused from her bowstring. Her younger self would have crowed with delight hearing Sabrina admit to imperfection, but Yennefer now is too world-weary to do anything but squeeze the blonde mage’s hand in empathy. And, though she’d never have imagined the thought crossing her mind whilst in Aretuza nor with Sabrina at her side, Yennefer lets the relief of reaching home wash over her.

* * * *

Tissaia is livid. These women, these _girls_ whom she remembers when they were still snivelling helpless creatures, are arguing amongst themselves. Trying to win the upper hand whilst _she_ has been unceremoniously dumped on the floor of her own hallway. She is imagining being able to smack Sabrina and Philippa’s heads together when the voice of reason arrives with Rita. Tissaia’s once prize-pupil does little to soothe her ire however as Rita continues to discuss the Rectoress as though she were not here. Tissaia is dimly aware that she has been getting steadily angrier for several days now and she can no longer pretend it is justifiable outrage at her circumstances. Dimeritium supresses, and in extreme cases, severs a mage’s connection to their Chaos. But the iridescent metal also preys on the mind, dulling thought processes, blurring the lines between reality and dreams, turning even the most docile individuals volatile and unpredictable. And so, the small and rather battered part of her mind that is still her own, urges Tissaia to calm, to not let the poison win. It is promptly drowned out however when unfamiliar hands pick her up to lay her on a stretcher taking her goodness knows where and damn all these fools treating her as though she were unconscious! The seething anger inside her translates into nothing more than a feeble grumble and a slight twitch of her left hand.

Some moments later however, she is suddenly glad that she has been passed on to these strangers, to these ordinary mortals who have no Chaos for the dimeritium powder to latch onto. The gritty layer of metal that has been stinging her skin will do no more to these healers than everyday dust. And Tissaia is grateful that none of her fellow Sorceresses are here now to witness as she is stripped. With careful impersonal touches never unkindly, but stripped nonetheless. The pendant, her gloves, the shelter of her high collar and the reassuring stiffness of her corset, all her layers and barriers peeled away, each button undone making her feel more and more vulnerable. The rage and fear clawing at her belly are poised to overwhelm what remains of her sanity when suddenly there is something sweet and cool on her skin. Water. Fresh, cold water washing away the grime, the blood, the dimeritium that has stalked her for days. As they wipe at her with cloths, the heaviness of her eyelids eases enough that she can open them and two women come gradually come into focus, both clothed in the humble garb of apprentice healers. Tissaia tests the tension of her jaw which has been locked into gritting her teeth against the pain these past days and finds it has released enough that she can mumble,

“Please. The baths.”

The healers exchange unconvinced glances but seem to relent, “Only if you let us accompany you, you are not yet strong enough to sit up yourself.”

Tissaia nods and lets them help her up, taking her by an elbow each. The Rectoress walks like a crone, leaning heavily on the healers, shuffling towards the pools sunk into the floor of the infirmary. And she is once again glad that no mage is here to see her so frail, the Brotherhood would have a field day with this pitiful display. As she sinks into the bath, perching on the stone lip half-way down the wall and letting her limbs float, the water lapping round her shoulders, Tissaia groans in relief. There is still the burning inside her, still the troubling shortness of breath, but her skin is no longer the infuriating mix of itchy and painful. And the oppressive heaviness that has lingered around her for days lifts, the dizziness and buzzing noise in her ears fading. She has never fully understood the scope of the word _cleansed_ until now. The healers unpin her hair and wash it thoroughly but efficiently and Tissaia bites back the urge to ask them to do it again, slowly. It is as though her skin has been shrinking from itself the past days, cringing away from the poison on it but now that is released it is aching to be touched, to feel something, anything other than the dimeritium. Such yearning is weakness however, and Tissaia is well-practiced at tamping it down. All too soon, she is helped back out of the water and into a simple cotton shift. They tie her hair out of the way but not nearly neatly enough to satisfy her fastidiousness. As they settle her back into the narrow bed, Tissaia fights against the wheeze in her chest and asks,

“The others? The survivors, where are they?”

The younger of her attendants soothes, “Hush now, don’t worry about them, you must rest.”

Tissaia arches her eyebrows and prepares to show this girl just who is in charge here but a coughing fit ruins her plans. They raise her pillows to ease her lungs then leave her to rest, dozens of other patients needing their attention, and Tissaia wriggles against the bedding moodily. Her initial relief is wearing off and now she wants answers. And a hairbrush. Through the small archway that leads to the rest of the infirmary, Tissaia hears raised voices and she drags herself to the foot of the bed, craning her neck so she can investigate. The high priestess supervising the healers is standing with her hands on her hips blocking the doorway and Tissaia catches snippets of what she is saying,

“Needs to rest…dimeritium poisoning, not strong enough… in charge here-”

She is interrupted by a familiar voice,

“I don’t care if you’re Melitele herself, you’re not stopping me from seeing her!”

Tissaia’s heart flutters and she strains further forward to see past the not insubstantial hips of the high priestess. Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of bronzed skin and black curls – Yennefer. As with any obstacle in the young mage’s path, the priestess eventually steps aside, and Yennefer strides past her as though she couldn’t care less about being unable to see. Tissaia cannot help a wry smile however as she spies Yennefer cautiously feeling with her toes along the flagstones. All confidence and poise on the surface but still balancing on a knife edge like she has always been. Tissaia calls out,

“She’s gone, you don’t have to keep pretending you know where you’re going. For pity’s sake put your hands out before you walk into a wall.”

Yennefer draws up short and Tissaia watches as a flurry of emotions make their way across her features. Perhaps it is being blind that has made Yennefer forget others can still see her. Whatever the reason, Tissaia has not seen her face so unguarded since the early days after the pigpen. And it makes her breathless trying to decipher the storm of feelings. Yennefer settles on a moody expression, her eyebrows drawn together and her full lips pouting slightly,

“ _That’s_ the first thing you say to me? After everything that’s happened?”

“Whatever I may wish to tell you will be useless if you knock yourself out on your way to my bedside. Now, do as I say, and come here. Carefully.”

Yennefer smirks, “It didn’t take you long to find your voice, you’ll be back to running the place before the week is out.”

Her voice does not have the biting scorn that usually accompanies her smirks however and she holds her hands out to feel for obstacles without further quarrel. Tissaia observes as she makes her way towards her. She too has been cleaned, the mud and blood that had streaked her face gone, the charred remains of her gown replaced by one of the unflattering cotton shifts. They have not been able to wash away the open wounds round her wrists from the shackles though and Tissaia feels the rage flare when she sees the bandaging covering the sores, the linen strips winding down past her wrists to cover her palms blistered in the fire. She still favours her right side, holding her left gingerly where the wound in her abdomen pulls. And her eyes… oh her eyes! It had made Tissaia want to weep when heard the first syllables of Fringilla’s spell. Yennefer’s eyes are not particularly horrifying at first glance as there is no visible damage to them. On closer inspection however, they make even the most seasoned healer shudder. They are deadened, nothing in them. Even those who are born blind have an essence of themselves in their eyes, a light in them. But there is nothing in Yennefer’s, only a blank emptiness, still their striking violet colour but no more alive than coloured glass.

Yennefer feels her thighs bump lightly into the edge of a bed and then there are hands holding hers guiding her to sit on a stool. Tissaia makes to draw her hands away once she is settled but Yennefer keeps hold of them. Without a word, she runs her palms up Tissaia’s forearms feeling the rough homespun cotton beneath her fingertips give way to warm skin when she reaches her shoulders. It is the most mundane detail, but it brings Yennefer dangerously close to tears because she can picture the shift hanging off Tissaia’s shoulders. Too big for her small frame, making her look oddly vulnerable. Yennefer swallows the lump in her throat and, because there is too much else to say all at once, murmurs only,

“Hello.”

The bed creaks slightly as Tissaia reaches out, the backs of her fingers tracing down Yennefer’s cheek, “Hello.”

Yennefer smiles, looking bashfully at her lap, an automatic reaction despite the fact she need not avert her eyes. She moves her hands over Tissaia slowly as though checking everything is as it should be,

“I can’t see if you’re alright. Does it hurt anywhere? Have they looked after you?”

Tissaia grasps her wrists lightly to still her wandering hands, “I’m fine. Still tired and with no discernible connection to Chaos but I don’t feel my mind slipping away as much. And you, are you well?”

In place of answering, Yennefer sighs and leans forward, hoping she does not misjudge the distance and bounce their skulls off one another. Not giving such an emotional display a second thought, Tissaia closes the gap between them, resting their foreheads together. Yennefer is puzzled for a moment at the coolness of Tissaia’s skin against hers then realises it is strands of damp hair,

“Your hair’s wet.”

“Yes, they washed it for me.”

Yennefer frowns and runs some tendrils through her fingers,

“Tch! They’ve not dried it properly - it’ll get all kinked like this.” She sniffs and grimaces, “And what godsforsaken soap did they use? You smell like an apothecary.”

“I imagine they have more pressing concerns than the scent of their soap.”

Yennefer makes another dissatisfied noise and curls her hands into loose fists, concentration furrowing her brow. Tissaia watches, half proud and half envious, as she conjures a hairbrush from thin air. Yennefer then promptly scrambles onto the bed, limbs in all directions as she tries to find her way blindly. Tissaia squawks,

“What are you doing? You’ll have that priestess in here giving us a scolding.”

Yennefer pauses in her clambering to look over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows in amusement, “I’d like to see anyone try scolding you, Rectoress.”

Tissaia huffs and attempts to re-arrange herself so there is space for Yennefer on the bed, reaching out to grab her when she nearly topples off the edge,

“Gods, Yennefer! Sit still and I’ll come to you. You’re like a new-born calf trying to find its feet.”

Eventually they are settled with Yennefer behind Tissaia and their legs stretched out in front of them, Tissaia trying not to lean too much into the warmth of Yennefer at her back. She is not entirely certain how she ended up here. It is not the dignified reunion she had planned but as Yennefer unfurls her hair and starts to brush through it, Tissaia no longer cares about anything other than how wonderful it feels, letting her eyes drift shut. Yennefer’s movements are hesitant at first as she navigates, learns the motions without her eyes to guide her. Soon she finds a pattern though, top to bottom, long brush strokes alternating with her fingertips teasing knots apart with the utmost care. The shifting strands and gentle rasp of the bristles make Tissaia’s scalp tingle and the steady rhythm lulls her into a calm that has eluded her since that fateful walk through the woods. The brushing stops and Tissaia starts to protest but quietens when Yennefer’s hands replace the brush, something herbal drifting in the air – arenaria, lavender, magnolia. Tissaia glances down and sees a little filigree bottle with fragrant oil glinting inside it. She hums in approval as Yennefer massages it through her hair but keeps her eyes open to tease,

“Trust you to have mastered conjuring cosmetics.”

“And will you argue that some stuffy runes or an understanding of geometry would better serve you at the moment?”

Tissaia quirks her lips in a smirk, “Is that truly what you think us scholarly mages spend our time and efforts on? _Geometry_?”

Yennefer scowls, “You know what I mean!”

Tissaia lays a hand on Yennefer’s knee beside her, “I know, I just...I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to tease you again.”

Yennefer stills her hands and frowns, “Is that what you’d call it? Teasing? Perhaps we are remembering your jibes differently, Rectoress.”

Tissaia wrestles the petulant voice of the dimeritium demanding she bring Yennefer down a few pegs, urging her to angry spitefulness. She will not let the poison win, not when Yennefer is what she stands to lose. Tissaia turns to cradle Yennefer’s bandaged wrists in her palms and the tightening around Yennefer’s mouth betrays that the poignancy of the gesture is not lost on her – they have been here before. Tissaia speaks, quiet but firm,

“We are not. I taunted you, pushed you to breaking point. It was necessary but that does not mean I enjoyed it. And it is not what I would have missed had Sodden gone differently.” She hesitates only a moment before lifting Yennefer’s hands and guiding them so her fingertips can feel Tissaia’s smile beneath them, “I would miss the people we became, just for a moment, sitting on that wall sipping ale. You teasing me, your smile, I’d never laughed with you before – all those years and we never laughed.”

She watches as Yennefer swallows, her eyelids fluttering with holding back tears, and allows it when the younger mage traces her features with her fingers, mapping out Tissaia’s expression. Yennefer murmurs,

“It’s strange, I feel like I can see more of you now than I ever could with my eyes.” Her thumb finds the tear leaking out of Tissaia’s eye and wipes it away, “I liked us that night too. Do you think we could be those people again?”

“My dear, you can be anything you want to be.” Tissaia leans forward, her lips brushing against Yennefer’s ear as she pulls her into a hug, “Of that, I have always been certain.”

Yennefer sighs and lets her cheek rest on Tissaia’s shoulder, her hands settling at the small of her back just like she had imagined. There is work to be done yet; sight to be restored, magic to be recovered, old wounds to be healed, fires to be doused. But despite all she has lost, after so long searching for _everything_ , Yennefer finally understands what it means to be satisfied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB. Margarita Laux-Antille (Rita) does not have a nationality assigned in existing lore but her surname always makes me think of Toussaint so head-canon she grew up there before her Conduit moment then continued to live in the Northern Kingdoms after Ascending from Aretuza. I imagine the duality of her roots in a Nilfgaard-protectorate and her adult-life in the North play a part in her neutrality. Just in case anyone was wondering why she's got a Toussaint accent!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia discovers a way to restore her Chaos  
> NB: LONG chapter, grab a cuppa  
> Warning: intense physical suffering but nothing graphic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter draws heavily on lore from the books and games not yet covered in the show however, there are no spoilers and there are further notes at the end of the chapter if you’d like a detailed explanation.  
> Otherwise, the only thing to know going in is that Hen Gedymdeith (originally known as Gerhart of Aelle) is the oldest living mage on the continent and was among the first human Sources brought to the Aen’Sidhe elves to be taught magic. He is one of the few people alive older than, and as powerful as, Tissaia de Vries. Whilst Dhu’llinge and bloed-geas are amalgamations of existing Elder words (literally ‘dark tongue’ and ‘blood obligation’) they have no basis in Witcher lore and are a plot-device created for this fic.

The herbarium outside the infirmary has neither the seclusion nor the refinement of her private gardens but after a week being kept indoors, walking no further than between her bed and the baths, Tissaia delights in the medicinal plants set out in unimaginative but orderly rows. There are no meandering paths through weeping willows or delicate blooms with exotic scents but oh it is good to be outside, to feel the wind on her cheeks, to smell the damp earth. The little walkway laid out in loose shale crunches beneath her feet and a third, slightly quieter crunch accompanies every tap of the cane. She is loath to be seen with it, but it is the price she must pay for some sorely needed solitude, the stick the only reason she does not have a healer hanging off her elbow. At the well she pauses and rests on the edge, the wheezing in her chest protesting the exertion of walking. Tissaia is under no illusions, she has not been allowed outside because her health has improved but because there is now nothing else to try. Every attempt, magical and medicinal, to remove the dimeritium lodged inside her has failed. The confidence of the priestesses has been replaced with pity, the brashness of her fellow Sorceress turned to desperation. Not just for her lost Chaos but for the poison creeping through her body and threatening her mind.

The peace is disturbed by the crash of flung pottery and angry shouts. Tissaia sighs as she recognises the voice. Her treatment is not the only one to have failed; Yennefer is still blind and growing increasingly frustrated. The Rectoress prepares to stand and walk to the window Yennefer’s insults are echoing through, quite prepared to reprimand her for such rudeness despite the new, careful friendship between them. Before she can get her legs to co-operate however, the little picket gate swings open and a middle-aged man strolls through, closing it carefully behind him. He is greying and his face is lined but he is spry, his gait measured but not heavy. The green and brown wool of his clothes is cut simply and were it not for the modest copper pendant round his neck, he may well be mistaken for a merchant. Tissaia struggles to her feet and he does her the courtesy of not offering to help, instead waiting until she is upright and then giving a little bow, brushing her hand with his lips when she proffers it. His voice is deeper than she remembers it when he speaks,

“ _Ceádmil gvaeren Daerienn_.”

Tissaia cannot help a smile, it is rare these days to hear someone who speaks Elder with the fluid lilt she remembers from her youth. So often now it is learnt as incantations rather than a language, its poems recited with academic preciseness rather than with feeling. Only those Elves and Mages old enough to remember Mirthe still have the flow and grace the Speech was first created with.

“You need hardly address me as ‘mistress Sorceress’ when we are alone, Hen Gedymdeith.”

“And you know better than to call me that, Tissaia, not when you are one of the few still living who knew me before that title.”

She nods, “It is good to see you, Gerhart. What brings you to us?”

He sits on the edge of the well, his hands resting on his knees and a faraway look in his eyes,

“I hope you do not resent my absence at Sodden. You would have had little use for an old scholar.”

Tissaia lowers herself to sit beside him leaning heavily on the cane then scoffs, “The Brotherhood may believe your nonsense about being old and decrepit, but I know there is not a mage alive whom you could not obliterate with your little finger.”

Hen Gedymdeith smiles, “Except perhaps you, my dear.” His smile fades, “Although if rumours are to be believed you are not currently at your best.”

Tissaia stiffens, “How much have you heard? How far has the wildfire of gossip spread?”

“The entire Continent is buzzing with news of Sodden and of the renegade mage who crawled out of the woodwork then burnt Nilfgaard to the ground.” He pauses and brushes a speck of lint from his knee, “Your Yennefer has made a name for herself.”

“She is not _my_ Yennefer.”

Hen Gedymdeith casts a sideways glance at her and makes an unconvinced noise but does not press the matter further. He stretches out his legs, tilting his head a little to catch the last of the afternoon sun then continues,

“And, on the heels of every tale about the Battle on the Hill, there is the hushed whisper that the Rectoress of Aretuza has lost her magic. Some are already claiming you are dead; I heard a very moving ballad mourning you as I made my way here.”

Tissaia groans and pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation, “I will throttle any bard who dares to sing it within ten leagues of Aretuza.”

Hen Gedymdeith chuckles then grows serious, turning to her, “I was not with you at Sodden, but I am here now, to offer what help I may. Your healers and Sorceresses have had no success in treating you?” Tissaia shakes her head and he reaches for her hand, “I may have a solution. It is risky, and you will not take kindly to it, but when all else has failed we are left with little choice.”

Tissaia cannot disguise the shiver that runs through her at the look on his face. They have known each other long enough, longer than anyone else in their respective lives, to recognise when the other is hiding a dreadful truth. And, whilst she usually prefers solitude and privacy for such truths, Tissaia is suddenly struck with the need to have Yennefer’s hand in hers. Pushing this disconcerting development to one side she clears her throat and stands,

“Come then, we had best hear this risky solution. I shall gather the Sorceresses whom I trust with this, I imagine I shall need their assistance whatever is to come.”

Hen Gedymdeith nods and stands, offering her his arm so they can stroll together as they once did when they were foolish youths and the world a different place. As they make their way indoors, Tissaia murmurs,

“There is something else you should know. You have heard Fringilla Vigo blinded Yennefer at Sodden?” Hen Gedymdeith nods and Tissaia lowers her voice even further, “It was a _bloed-geas_ , she had the _Dhu’llinge_ incantation.”

The old Sorcerer pulls up short, his brow furrowed, “A blood-curse? It is not possible - the Dark Speech was lost when Mirthe fell. Are you certain it was that which she spoke?”

“The sound of that language is not something I will ever forget, nor you I wager. It was already frowned upon, even in the early days at Loc Muinne. Is it any wonder that fragments were smuggled out, kept in secret locations away from Mirthe? Nilfgaard has been excavating ruins everywhere they conquer… Fringilla has found the remnants of some fool’s experiments and now she too is dabbling in dangers she cannot begin to fathom.”

For the first time since arriving Hen Gedymdeith appears old, stooping a little and his face sorrowful. He sighs,

“Then you know what the cost will be to restore her.”

Tissaia’s lips twitch in a rueful smile, “Yennefer or Fringilla?”

His frown deepens and he grips her shoulders urging her, “Be careful, _sor’ca_.”

Tissaia shuts her eyes against the endearment, _little sister_. She cannot be the pig-tailed, gap-toothed girl trailing after Gerhart in the gardens of Mirthe, pestering him for magic tricks. She is Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza, Arch-Mage of the Chapter, and there are little girls who follow _her_ now.

An hour or so later, said little girls are hissing like wildcats round the table as they react to Hen Gedymdeith’s proposal and Tissaia fights the urge to throw the carafe of Beauclaire White over the yowling pack. She opts instead to pour herself a larger measure than she would normally indulge in, downing it in the hope it will stop the trembling of her lower lip. Thankfully, Philippa and Sabrina are causing enough of a scene between them that Tissaia doubts anyone would notice were she to start tap-dancing let alone a momentary crack in her stoic façade. Philippa smacks her hand on the table, leaning menacingly across it so that her bosom threatens to overspill from her dangerously low-cut gown,

“The Trial of _fucking_ Grasses? You’re insane!”

Sabrina echoes her, for once on the same page as the Redanian mage, “It’s madness, there has to be another way!”

She squares her shoulders, jutting her chin out as has become her habit when confronting someone and Tissaia would smile at the familiar pose were she not occupied with swallowing the bile that has risen in her throat, her stomach churning with dread. Triss has been chewing her lower lip with worry but suddenly exclaims at Tissaia,

“You can’t! Just one of the potions would be enough to kill you never mind all three… I won’t let you!”

Her voice cracks, her wide dark eyes swim with unshed tears and Rita pats her shoulder comfortingly whilst glaring daggers at Hen Gedymdeith,

“There are still books, spells, remedies we have not yet explored – how can you offer this barbarism as the only solution?”

It is testament to Hen Gedymdeith’s courage, or perhaps it is simply what happens when you are the oldest person alive, that he sits unperturbed through this tirade. Most people would be cowering with even one of these women shouting at them let alone all four, but he waits patiently for them to calm then steeples his hands and observes,

“I have seen the Trial of Grasses for myself, I assure you I do not suggest it lightly. The fact remains however, it will break down enough of Tissaia’s body that any other poisons may be removed.”

Yennefer who has been uncharacteristically quiet until now clears her throat,

“I have had dealings with Witchers.” Her eyelids flutter momentarily but she regains her composure, “They maintain the details of their mutations were lost during the Purge.”

“It is true we can no longer create Witchers. The methods for crafting the mutagens, for altering the body once it has been opened, have been lost. But the potions, the Decoctions, that strip the body back so it may be re-worked – the recipes for these are still known though only by a select few; Mages and Witcher mentors from the old days.”

Hen Gedymdeith drains the dregs from the bottom of his goblet then stands, “I will leave the formulas with you, it is up to you whether you choose to use them.” He turns to Tissaia, “You will forgive me if I do not stay to witness your Trial, once was enough for any lifetime no matter how long.” His gaze moves round the table, a knowing smile creasing his face, “Besides, you will have no need of me. Not with such fierce and capable Sorceresses at your side.”

Tissaia forces her quaking knees to straighten so she may stand to bid him goodbye,

“ _Va fáill,_ Gerhart.”

“ _Vaer’trouv, gvaeren gynvael._ There is yet hope _._ ”

Tissaia glares at him for using yet another of his old nicknames for her, _ice mistress_ , then gestures at Rita to lower the guards round Aretuza momentarily so he may cast. His portal appears utterly silently and despite the worry gnawing at her gut, Tissaia manages to smirk at the wide-eyed admiration each of her girls cannot quite disguise over the masterful display. He steps through, the portal closes, Rita restores the wards and suddenly Tissaia is once again the elder in the room. The person whom everyone turns to for the answers. And she cannot bear the naked emotions on the faces before her, each of them begging her for a different decision. Resisting the temptation to sink back into her chair and let her forehead droop to rest on the table, Tissaia grips the head of her cane and says,

“I will need to time to consider. I understand if you cannot linger whilst I do, each of you have duties and responsibilities elsewhere.”

Sabrina folds her arms emphatically,

“We’re not leaving you so stop trying to make it sound like a good idea.”

Rita nods,

“If, _if_ , you proceed with this you will need stabilizing spells, potions for the pain, restorative enchantments, wards and barriers…”

She ticks them off on her fingers as she speaks, already combing through her encyclopaedic knowledge for which incantations may be most useful. Tissaia frowns,

“I will not allow any of you to put yourselves at risk, you may help but _only_ with simple spells and potions. Nothing that involves draining yourselves of Chaos.”

Philippa raises an eyebrow, “You will _allow_ us to do whatever is necessary, Rectoress.”

The two battle wills over the table, dark eyes tussling with icy blue ones, equally elegant eyebrows competing for the most menacing arch. Their standoff is broken by Triss who has been running her finger over the dog-eared pages left by Hen Gedymdeith,

“Albino bruxa tongue, manticore glands, forktail spinal fluid… we’re going to need a Witcher.”

Yennefer shifts uncomfortably in her chair, her fingers toying with her star choker,

“I can get us one of those.”

Tissaia feels her jaw clench. She has heard the songs about the White Wolf, knows Yennefer features in them. And, for the second time that day she finds herself disconcerted by thoughts of Yennefer, the image of her in the Witcher’s arms twisting Tissaia’s insides even more than the prospect of enduring a Trial.

* * * *

Yennefer resents the pity radiating from Geralt as he takes in her appearance. She cannot see him of course but she can sense his discomfort, hear the awkward shuffle of his feet as he tries not to stare. Tissaia has assured her that her eyes are not noticeably damaged but Geralt will have heard the stories by now. And Yennefer knows she is not her usual glamourous self. She has taken to wearing simple dresses without finicky ruffles or fastenings for her to fumble blindly with. She is shorter than he will have ever seen her without her heeled shoes, preferring now to have her feet bare for finding her way along the ground. And her hair is drawn back in a loose braid that Tissaia did for her this morning, her face clear of any make-up with no reflection for her to study and paint. Yennefer makes a conscious effort to stand straight (an old habit from the early days after her Enchantment which surfaces whenever she is feeling vulnerable) and steadies her voice,

“Hello, Geralt. You got my letter?”

“I did. I have the parts but Yen, what are you up to? Don’t think I don’t recognise these ingredients. I know their properties and how they may be applied.”

“Then you can surmise for yourself why I require them.”

She does not hear him step towards her and only just manages not to flinch when a large, calloused hand grips her elbow. Oblivious to the fright he has just given her, Geralt insists,

“You’ll kill yourself, let me find another way.”

Yennefer smirks in sudden understanding, “Is that why you agreed to harvest the parts, to rescue me? No Geralt, someone far more important than I requires these potions.”

“When have you ever cared for someone more than yourself?”

He says it with the same incredulity as when he’d mocked her over the dragon-heart, presuming he knew enough of her to judge whether she could truly want a child. Yennefer pulls her arm from his grip and steps away,

“I cared for _you_ …once.” He steps after her and she crosses her arms, “Don’t, Geralt. I have neither time nor energy for us, not now, not when so much else requires my attention.”

And although she is still angry with him, Yennefer feels her resolve faltering as he murmurs, softening his voice in the way that always makes her ache for him,

“You’re important to me, remember? What is worthier of your time than that, than us?

She planned to make a snide comment, to goad him with the possibility of a rival but what comes out of her mouth surprises her just as much as Geralt,

“Someone who loved me enough to save me but then set me free.”

Yennefer smiles, a wide true smile rather than her customary smirk, and she has to press her fingers against her mouth to stop a giddy laugh from escaping. Because she’s only just realised the truth of it; Tissaia loves her, has always loved her. Yennefer jumps when she hears the tell-tale trio of taps that announces Tissaia’s presence since she took to carrying a cane. The Rectoress’ voice does not betray how much she overheard, and Yennefer would give anything to see her eyes right now, to share the wordless communication that situations like this cry out for. She almost melts when she feels Tissaia lay a hand lightly on her back, her thumb stroking down Yennefer’s spine as she addresses Geralt,

“They told me you had arrived, _vatt’ghern._ You have my thanks - these ingredients cannot have been easy to come by. You will of course be paid in full for your services.”

Geralt blinks several times at the display of intimacy then grunts, “There is no need, Yen asked-”

Tissaia interrupts him, “You will be paid. This is a business arrangement, after all. Nothing less, nothing more.”

Yennefer feels Geralt turn towards her, hears the rasp of leather and chainmail as he reaches out to touch her,

“Yen, let me fix this.”

Yennefer wrestles with the tugging forces inside her, the djin twisting fate, her memories of happier times with Geralt, and the steady warmth of Tissaia’s hand demanding nothing but offering everything should she wish to share in it. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Yennefer decides,

“Goodbye, Geralt. I wish you luck on the Path.” She takes the satchel heavy with monster parts and walks away, calling over her shoulder to Tissaia, “I’ll take these to Triss.”

Geralt stares after her as she leaves the hallway and Tissaia adjusts her pendant before cautioning,

“Be careful with wishes, Master Wolf, djins rarely fulfil them the way you expect.”

He turns sharply to her, “She told you?”

“Not in so many words, but I read between the lines. How did you word it I wonder? Never to lose her?”

“Never to be separated from her.”

“Ah. Well, those who are shackled are rarely happy.” Tissaia folds her hands neatly on the head of her cane, fixing Geralt with an icy stare, “Perhaps it would have been wise to specify you wished blissful captivity for her.”

Geralt clenches his fists, taking a step towards Tissaia, “She is not captive! I made that wish to save her life, not imprison her.”

Tissaia appears small amongst most people and next to Geralt she looks tiny, but it is the Witcher who steps back first, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“And you could not have wished for her survival but under no obligation to you? No, _vatt’ghern_ , whilst I do not doubt your intentions were misguided rather than malicious, the fact remains; you have chained the two of you together. Irrevocably. Only time will tell what misery may ensue.” She pulls a coin purse from her belt and holds it out, “Take what you are owed.”

She half-expects Geralt will hurl the purse to the ground, scattering coins and storming out but he takes the money with a weary sigh. Tissaia nods then turns to leave, pausing as he calls out from the doorway,

“The Trial will kill you, Arch-Mistress.”

“I am already dying, what is there to lose?”

A grim smile crosses Geralt’s face, “You mages created the Trials to make us something other, something not wholly human… now at least you will see for yourself the results of your experiments.”

He leaves the door open behind him and Tissaia stares at the wedge of sunlight streaming through it onto the flagstones long after he has vanished from sight. She stands perfectly still, only the shifting chain round her high collar as she fidgets with the pendant betraying the doubt gnawing at her.

* * * *

Yennefer tries to ignore the pins and needles in her arms as she holds her hands out for Sabrina to roll strips of linen into bandages like coiling a ball of yarn run loose. They had pestered Triss and Rita for something useful to do but Yennefer is starting to regret it. She knows she is neither a scholar nor an alchemist – she is talented, powerful, but she relies on raw energy, on her instinct rather than anything learnt. However, that does not mean she enjoys being employed as a glorified skivvy, hauling water, building fires and other mundane tasks. Triss is brewing the three decoctions, steam frizzing her corkscrew curls as she inspects the coloured liquids simmering in glass phials. Rita surrounded by innumerable scrolls and tomes, is studying runes and glyphs, her quill scratching as she takes notes. The studious hush is disrupted by Philippa exclaiming in the next room,

“By all the gods, Tissaia, you’re impossible!”

Still fuming, Philippa strides into the alchemy lab and jabs at some bryonia with a pestle in frustration,

“She’s refusing to go through with it. After she _demanded_ we make the arrangements!”

Triss takes the pestle from her to stop her pulverizing the delicate petals and gives her a bundle of mandrake roots,

“If you’re going to grind something, do these instead.”

Rita sighs and sets her quill aside, making to stand but Yennefer stops her,

“I’ll go. You’re the only one who can understand those damn books.”

She disentangles herself from Sabrina’s bandages then feels her way along the wall to the small side chamber where Philippa had been setting up for the Trial. No one had disagreed when she announced she would arrange the table and restraints – her expertise with bondage is known across the Continent. And none of the others had the stomach for it, for the cold hard practicalities of tying Tissaia down so she cannot escape from the pain. Yennefer steps into the room and shivers after the heat of the lab, the fragrance of herbs and parchment replaced by the cold damp stone. She grumbles,

“It’s freezing in here, point me at the fireplace and I’ll light it.”

Tissaia replies from a distant corner by the window, “I’m not letting you conjure fire when you can’t see what you’re doing. Besides, Philippa said it has to be cold for when the fevers start.”

Yennefer scoffs, “I can hear your teeth chattering from here, Philippa can kiss my ass.”

Tissaia replies gloomily, “She’d probably enjoy that, knowing her.”

Yennefer snorts in surprise at the vulgarity and cannot supress the laughter that bubbles up through her chest. She clamps her hand over her mouth to silence it, worried it is insensitive, but she catches the little sounds of Tissaia giggling through closed lips and lowers her hand. Tissaia makes a hiccupping sound and starts to laugh properly, the sound warm and rich, a cackle followed by a belly-laugh and breathy giggles. Yennefer can picture her perfectly, her cheekbones pinking and the sparkle in her eyes, clutching at her side as her ribs ache with mirth, the wrinkling of her upturned nose. When they regain control of themselves, breathless with tears streaming down their cheeks, Tissaia clears her throat and tidies her hair then asks,

“Did they send you in here to convince me?”

“No. I came to see what’s troubling you – whether you go ahead with the Trial is entirely your decision.”

“Nothing troubles me, I have simply decided I cannot in good conscience ask any of you to risk yourselves.”

Yennefer rakes a hand through her hair in frustration,

“Tissaia, every one of us would move mountains for you, don’t you know that yet?” She steps forward, softening her tone, “Is it the pain that frightens you? Triss is making you analgesics, we will not let you suffer whilst the decoctions work.”

Tissaia sighs, “It’s not that… I would suffer any amount of pain if it restored my Chaos.” She pauses to reach for Yennefer who is shuffling towards the window-seat and guides her to sit safely then sighs again, “I fear what comes after the Trial, I cannot know how it will change me.”

Yennefer cajoles, “Maybe you’ll be ripped, have a body that could stop a siege-tower. Or cat eyes to frighten new adepts even more than you already do.”

Tissaia smiles briefly but her features cloud again and she plucks nervously at a loose thread on her sleeve,

“You and Geralt, you were…intimate?”

Yennefer raises her eyebrows in surprise and replies guardedly, “Yes.”

Tissaia’s eyes flit away and she swallows hard, her voice squeaking a little,

“And did he, did you… did you feel he cared for you? That there was more than, than…physical satisfaction.” Her cheeks are flaming red, but she soldiers on, “They say Witchers lose all ability to feel, that they are stripped of their emotions.”

Yennefer’s eyes widen in understanding, “Tissaia de Vries. Have you, of all people, grown fond of your emotions?”

Tissaia stands abruptly and walks away as quickly as her cane will allow,

“Do not mock me, Yennefer!”

Yennefer struggles to her feet,

“No, Tissaia, wait!” She cannot think of anything to say that will suffice so she offers up the only word she has, “Please.”

She hears Tissaia pause in storming off and steps towards her, intent on making her understand. Her foot catches on the rug she cannot see, and she winces in anticipation, but the floor never comes. Instead, there are hands gripping her, a shoulder under her arm and the clatter of the cane as Tissaia drops it to catch Yennefer. Yennefer is off-balance and Tissaia is frail but between them they manage to sink to the floor rather than crash into it. Already breathless from the shock of tripping, Yennefer goes light-headed when she feels Tissaia cup her face, hands warm and steady, her voice hardly more than a whisper,

“I am afraid to regain my Chaos only to lose you.” She lifts Yennefer’s hand and presses it to her chest just below her collarbone, “I would rather anything than to forget the way you make me feel, to not have that wonderful ache right here whenever you smile.”

Yennefer is rarely speechless but all she can manage is a shaky, “Tissaia…” then rests her cheek against Tissaia’s, clutching at her to pull her closer. Tissaia wraps her arms round her,

“Too long… I waited too long. And now we have no time left to us.”

Yennefer pulls back and insists,

“You will be restored; I would not let you die at Sodden, and I will not allow it now.” She cups Tissaia’s face, fierce and determined, “And, when you are whole, you will fix my eyes because you have always been the one who heals me.”

Tissaia response is muffled into a whimper as Yennefer crushes their lips together, salty with tears but impossibly sweet. The slide of her lips, the gentle pressure of her fingers on her cheek, the strands of soft hair tickling her forehead, the warmth and scent of her – Yennefer savours every sensation, each one more than she has ever imagined. And when they must finally break apart to breathe, Tissaia promises,

“Yes.”

* * * *

Despite only wearing a thin cotton gown and the chill in the room, Tissaia is already drenched in sweat. The restraints are chafing at her wrists and ankles, the table unforgiving and unyielding beneath her as she tries to arch her back. The first phial is almost drained, its green viscous contents snaking down tubing into her forearm where Triss had put the needle. The analgesic draught she’d taken has made the pain bearable thus far and in a distant corner of her mind Tissaia preens at Triss’ alchemical prowess, the younger mage sharing the Rectoress’ aptitude for potions. The dimeritium can sense the danger though and is fighting back, clawing at her with tooth and nail to maintain its purchase. Nausea washes over her and, even with the glittering sphere of Sabrina and Philippa’s stabilizing spell floating above her, Tissaia can see the room growing dark, her eyes failing as the toxins start to break down her body. The burning of the dimeritium flares and she rolls her eyes back, gritting her teeth, shuddering as she feels it toying with her mind, grotesque hallucinations playing out across the back of her closed eyelids. The visions pass and she blinks away the tears, twisting her neck to see the last of the green decoction drain away.

Triss reaches for the second valve with shaking hands and, as the red opaque liquid trickles down to join the blood in Tissaia’s veins, whispers,

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Even Philippa flinches at the scream Tissaia lets out as the potion reaches her, fighting the restraints in earnest now. Rita insists,

“Hold her steady, all is lost if she rips the needle out now.”

Yennefer has stationed herself at the head of the table and slides her hand gently down Tissaia’s arm to hold it in place, firm but tender, leaning down to murmur against her cheek,

“You’re doing so well, it’s almost done.”

It is a lie, there is another potion yet and then the hours of waiting as her body breaks down sufficiently for Rita to draw the dimeritium from within her. But Tissaia quietens to a low keening rather than screams and Rita nods,

“That’s good, Yenna, keep talking to her.”

Yennefer strokes through Tissaia’s hair and crouches so she can rest her chin on the table next to Tissaia’s temple, resting their cheeks together,

“Looks like you’re stuck with me babbling again.”

She murmurs sweet nothings, careful tender reassurances – the sort of things she never heard as a child and has little patience for as an adult. But Tissaia is hurting and Yennefer finds she does not have to fabricate lies or mimic what she has heard others say because she just talks to her, tells her the truth about how wonderful she is, how much Yennefer believes in her, showering her with endearments that are rooted in actual feelings. She catches the others casting sideways glances, wondering who the warm and gentle woman is and what she has done with the cynical, snarky Yennefer they know. They do not see; she has always been this way inside but has fooled everyone into believing her unbreakable. Everyone but Tissaia.

Tissaia stiffens as the third and final potion hits her, blue and pearly, too pretty to be something so lethal. The cry that rips from her is broken, wrenching from deep inside her, echoing as though it has lain in the dark of forgotten memories for too many years. The mages around her who can see shudder at the black creeping through her veins visible under her pale skin. And Tissaia dissolves into sobs, terror darkening her blue eyes, her mind wandering into frightful places as the toxins and dimeritium take hold of it. Philippa and Sabrina are starting to droop, blood trickling from their noses but they grit their teeth and draw on their reserves of Chaos because the glowing ball of energy above Tissaia is the only thing keeping her from dying as her system goes into toxic shock. Triss has damp cloths filled with herbs which she keeps laying over Tissaia’s burning skin, swapping them for fresh ones whenever steam starts to rise from them. The hours stretch out as they wait for her body to surrender, to stop fighting. The static hum of the stabilising spell and the trickle of water as Triss works is broken occasionally by a sob or a distant memory garbled by delirium. When the moon is high and the vials long since empty, Rita probes experimentally and nods,

“I can get to the dimeritium, her body has degenerated enough. Triss, the flasks.”

Her hand stretched over Tissaia and pronouncing intricate complex incantations that Yennefer struggles to follow past the twelfth syllable, Rita starts to draw the dimeritium out towards her. It rises in a sticky, shimmering cloud, leaking out of Tissaia like ink through water, sluggish and dark. The flakes condense into crystals as Rita forces them into large flasks, Triss stoppering them and sealing the corks with wax when they are filled. Tissaia shudders and begs,

“Make it stop.”

Yennefer links her other hand with Tissaia’s and urges,

It’s working, Tissaia. You’ll be free of it soon, I promise.” Tissaia only shakes her head and cries in earnest. Yennefer feels the tears wet against her own cheek and carefully thumbs them away, “Did I ever tell you about this vineyard in Toussaint I technically own? We could go there, you and me. The house is small, but it has white walls, a pretty balcony that you can see the river from, two armchairs by the fire.”

Rita gestures for her to continue, the dimeritium flowing from Tissaia more freely as she calms.

“We could grow jasmine to climb over the doorway, I know you like the smell. And we’d have a cow, Melitele knows what either of us would do with a cow… actually you can probably already milk one, I wouldn’t put it past you. And there’s a hill at the back where the grass is soft enough to go barefoot, a big olive tree to sit under and watch the sun set.”

Tissaia’s sobs have turned to only the occasional whimper and she is no longer fighting the cuffs, her skin cold now. But she is horribly pale, her lips almost blue and Yennefer can see the erratic jump of her pulse in the notch above her collarbones. Philippa falters, having to grip the edge of the table to stay upright, and the sphere wavers. Sabrina mutters through clenched teeth,

“Take a break, I’ll hold it then you can pick it up when I need to stop.”

Philippa snaps, “I do not need a break! Not all of us are so weak that we fall at the first hurdle, allowing ourselves to be manipulated like common hedge-mages.”

Sabrina goes white except for two crimson slashes of embarrassment high on her cheeks. But it is she who manages to hold out the longest, her spell sustaining whilst Philippa doubles over and retches, Triss rushing to her side. The healer begs,

“You all need to rest, you cannot keep this up any longer.”

Rita wipes the sweat from her forehead, ignoring the blood dripping onto the green satin of her gown,

“We cannot stop. Not until it is done.”

Sabrina shudders and the sphere flickers. The cloud of dimeritium Rita is controlling senses her weakening and creeps towards her rather than the flask, searching for fresh Chaos to latch onto. Tissaia’s breathing starts to rattle and Yennefer stands abruptly,

“Get up, all of you. Cast your spells, you will have the energy you need.

She raises her arms, palms turned upwards and takes a deep breath preparing to draw. Chaos is powered by energy drawn from the world, the give and take of magic. Earth is the safest source, stoic and benevolent, but it takes a skilled mage to coax power from it. Air is fickle and fire is dangerous. Water is therefore the first element students learn to manipulate; its power reliable yet still potent enough that even the inexperienced gain results. But the energy drawn from a body of water mirrors its source, a lake smooth as glass yields deep, placid power easy to harness whilst the sea is unpredictable, untameable to all but the most powerful of mages. Rita senses her reaching out to the crashing waves that surround Aretuza and pauses in her incantation to gasp,

“Don’t be foolish, you’ll kill both of you if you try that!”

Yennefer can feel the sea fighting her, unwilling to do her bidding but she absorbs it, all of it. The candles in the room flicker as a wind picks up, Rita’s books fluttering and the diamonds of glass in the leaded windows quivering in the rumble of something seismic. Not sure who she is addressing – the gods, the Brotherhood, Fringilla, her brute of a father, the djin that mocks her at every turn – Yennefer cries out,

“You will not take her from me!”

And unleashes the storm, channelling it into the others’ spells, into Tissaia’s own dimly flickering Chaos, against whatever Darkness that lingers at Fringilla’s bidding. The residents of Gors Velen across the bridge are used to strange occurrences – one has to be when living opposite a school for mages. But the blinding light and fearful rumbling coming from one of the towers causes even the most nonchalant residents to cast anxious glances across the water. Fishermen and sailors shake their fists at Aretuza as the waves roil and toss, the sea made angry and their boats creaking in protest. When it at last subsides, there is an eerie stillness, a disconcerting quiet. No one sleeps soundly that night, instead muttering about the witches and their meddling with nature.

Triss is the first to recover and turns to practical tasks, lighting the fire and the candles, removing the needles from Tissaia’s arm, soaking fresh cloths so everyone may clean the blood and sweat from their faces. One by one, the Sorceresses find their feet and the strength to move until at last only Yennefer and Tissaia remain, the black-haired mage slumped over the table, her fingers still entangled with Tissaia’s. The Rectoress stirs and everyone holds their breath, Yennefer dragging herself upright as she feels Tissaia shift. Her lips move but no sound comes out and Yennefer leans in closer, Tissaia’s breath warm against her neck, a little shallow but no longer laboured.

“What did you say?”

“Pigs… in Toussaint, I want pigs too.”

Yennefer chuckles and rests their foreheads together, a thrill running through her as she realises she can sense Tissaia’s Chaos, fragile and bruised but alive. Wonderfully alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Trial of the Grasses is one of three trials that boys must pass to become Witchers. This particular trial is responsible for the mutations that give them their super-human reflexes, healing abilities, and distinctive cat-eyes. The recipes and procedures for the trial were thought to be lost during the Purge when most of the Witchers were massacred. However, in Wild Hunt, Yennefer mysteriously knows the ingredients required to make the Decoctions and uses them to lift a curse. My head-canon is that she had seen somebody else (nudge nudge) go through the trial many years earlier.


End file.
